“Do speak that again,” she said.  “You are the cunningest baby!”

‘"Woe to de Dotties—!’ No, I can’t tell it ’thout I have sumpin to stan’ on!” sighed Miss Flyaway, falling off the stump directly against Dotty.

“I believe you’ve broken me,” cried Dotty; for, though Katie was small, her weight pressed heavily.

“Well, Fibby’s broke sumpin too,” replied she, calmly.  “What does lamps wear?”

“I s’pose you mean chimneys.”

“Yes, Fibby has did it; she’s broke a chimley.”

“Look up here, little Ruffleneck; you’re an honor to the state,” said brother Horace, proudly.  “You don’t find such a ’cute child as this in Yankee land, Dotty Dimple.”

“You musn’t call me a Yankee,” said Dotty, who never liked Horace’s tone when he used the word.  “I’m not a Yankee; I’m a ’Publican!”

“Hurrah for you!” shouted Horace, swinging his hat; “hurrah for Miss Parlin Number Three!”

“Dear, dear! what have I said now?  I don’t want him to hurrah for me,” thought Dotty.

Horace returned to his manners.

“She’s such a firebrand that I like to make her eyes flash; but we must be polite to visitors; so here goes.”

“Cousin Dotty,” said he aloud, dropping his mocking tones, and speaking very respectfully, “if you are a true Republican, I honor you as such, and I’ll never call you a Yankee again.”

“Well, I am a ’Publican to the white bone!”

What Dotty meant by the “white bone” was rather uncertain, it being one of those little figures of speech which will not bear criticism.

“Then you believe in universal suffering?”

“O, yes,” answered Dotty, quickly.

“And the black walnut bureau?”

Dotty hesitated.

“If the ’Publicans do, and my father does.”

“O, yes; everybody believes in the black walnut bureau—­that ever saw one.”

Dotty glanced at Horace stealthily; but his face was so serious that she was sure he could not be making sport of her.  They were walking a little in advance of the others, Horace dragging Flyaway, who was intent upon digging her little heels into the ground.

“This place is sometimes called Goblin Valley,” said the boy.  “A goblin means a sort of ghost; but nobody but simpletons believe in such things,” added he, quickly, for he was too high-minded to wish to frighten his little cousin.

“O, I’m not at all afraid of such things,” said Dotty quietly; “I’ve got all over it.  I know what ghosts are now; they are pumpkins.”

“Excuse my smiling,” said Horace, laughing uproariously.

“You may laugh, cousin Horace, but I’ve seen them.  They have a candle inside; and that’s why my father brought me out West, because the doctor said it frightened me so.  Why, they had to pour water over me and drown me almost to death, or I’d have died!”

“I wonder!”

“Yes, ’twas Johnny Eastman; but his mamma gave me a beautiful little tea-set, with golder rims than the one that was burnt up; and Johnny and Percy both felt dreadfully.”